Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine. Fic title is from the Sarah McLachlan song "Full of Grace", which can be applied to this fic. I just didn't want to use it as a songfic because I felt that would make it kind of tacky.

Author's Note: I promise, this is the LAST one-year-left-to-live oneshot I'm going to do. xD I was just thinking about how in all the oneshots that I and other authors have written it's been all gooey sappy brotherly love. I wondered what it would be like if Sam reacted a little bit differently...

Please review!


"Don't get mad at me. Don't you do that." Dean's expression was pleading, sincere; maybe even a little confused. But all of this was lost on his younger brother.

"How can I not, Dean?" Sam asked, anger flaring in his voice. "Whatever happened to 'what's dead should stay dead'?" Dean shook his head sadly.

"I'm so sorry." Sam narrowed his eyes slightly.

"No, you're not." Dean frowned.

"What?"

"You're a selfish bastard. You know, if this were anyone else but us, you would have kicked their asses for making such a goddamned stupid deal."

"I couldn't let you die, Sammy!" Dean's voice cracked a little, the tears behind it becoming evident.

"No." The word hung in the air, daring Dean to respond. This is what it came down to. Everything Dean had ever done, everything he'd ever had, everything he'd ever given. None of it meant anything after Sam uttered that one syllable. No. "You don't give a rat's ass about what happens to me, Dean! All you care about is yourself, how lonely you're gonna be, what you're gonna do," Sam continued, becoming more furious by the second. "And I'm sick of it. For all I care, you should have let me stay dead!"

"You don't mean that," said Dean quietly.

"You don't think so?" countered Sam. Dean realized how reminiscent this was of a conversation between him and Bobby earlier, and he drew a deep breath, ready to speak. But Sam had already turned his back on him and was climbing into the driver's seat of the Impala. The driver's seat. Given any normal situation, Dean would have kicked him out of there so fast he wouldn't know what hit him, but here—now—Dean said nothing. He was too afraid.

How certain are you that what you brought back is 100 pure Sam?

100 certain, had been Dean's silent answer to that question.

But now? Not so much. 60 percent, maybe. Give or take.

Sam said nothing the entire drive, just focused on the road ahead of him with a face set in stone that tore at Dean's heart. Gone were the lost puppy-dog eyes, the tear-streaked face, the hurt expression that was always his Sammy. This was somebody new.

This was Sam.

That night, Sam took a knife and slashed Dean's stomach, and the pain was so much that Dean couldn't bring himself to hit back, or even cry, just to press a tissue to the wound and watch in a mixture of fascination and horror as the blood spread rapidly, taking over the pure whiteness of the tissue, and the bleeding wouldn't stop no matter how long he held it there and he knew for some reason that it would never heal.

He woke up sweating with tears pouring down his face and lay there for the longest time just watching his brother sleep, wondering if one single year would provide him with enough time to make it right.